IC-NRLF 


77    BID 


THE  ASCENT 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


ELIZABETH  MILLS  CROTHERS 


sD 


o 


GIFT  OF 


THE  ASCENT 

& 
OTHER  POEMS 


ELIZABETH  MILLS  CROTHERS 


Foreword  by 

DAVID  STARR  JORDAN 


, 


SAN  FRANCISCO  •  CALIFORNIA 

SUNSET  PRESS 

1921 


h 


Copyright 

Mrs.  W.  H.  MilU 

1921 


45051.7 


FOREWORD 


THIS  volume  is  a  memorial  of  a  short  but  most  happy 
and  beautiful  life.  It  is  made  up  of  lyric  poems  written 
by  a  very  gifted  young  woman  for  her  own  pleasure  and  that 
of  her  friends.  They  were  as  spontaneous  as  the  songs  of 
birds,  and  were  put  forth  in  the  security  of  a  happy  home 
and  with  no  thought  of  publication. 

Elizabeth  Mills  Crothers,  daughter  of  William  H.  Mills, 
associate  and  friend  of  Governor  Stanford,  and  Elizabeth 
Haswell  Mills  of  Sacramento,  was  born  in  Sacramento  on 
January  20,  1882,  and  died  at  Stanford  University  August  18, 
1920.  She  was  prepared  for  college  at  Miss  Sarah  D.  Ham- 
lin's  school  in  San  Francisco,  graduating  in  1898,  entered 
Vassar  College  for  a  time,  soon  transferring  to  the  University 
of  California  where  she  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  in 
December,  1909.  On  March  23,  1911,  she  was  married  to 
George  Edward  Crothers  of  San  Francisco,  a  member  of  the 
Pioneer  Class  (1895)  of  Stanford  University,  of  which  institu 
tion  he  was  then  a  trustee  and  being  soon  afterward  appointed 
judge  of  the  Superior  Court  of  California. 

In  her  youth  "Bessie"  Mills  was  a  peculiarly  alert  and 
happy  child.  According  to  the  testimony  of  her  friends,  "she 
won  pleasure  from  the  beauty  her  eyes  revealed  about  her." 
"Sunshine  and  exquisite  joyousness  abounded  in  that  sweet 
spirit  of  hers."  "A  rare  appealing  and  heartening  personal 
ity."  "She  lived  all  her  life  in  a  world  of  her  own  creating. 
In  childhood  she  played  with  imaginary  children,  sang  im 
provised  songs,  sometimes  so  sad  that  she  shed  tears,  often 
so  joyous  that  she  would  laugh  over  her  own  conception." 
"She  was  fond  of  the  pencil  and  often  drew  faces  expressive 
of  all  the  various  emotions,  love,  fear,  hate,  and  courage, 
delighting  to  portray  creations  of  her  own  imagination." 


2^ 


In  Miss  Hamlin's  school  she  did  excellent  work,  especially 
in  English,  Latin  and  History.  She  was  always  ready  with 
voice  or  pen  in  any  of  the  school  functions,  "her  speech  always 
charming,  her  bearing  most  gracious." 

French  she  had  studied  almost  from  childhood  and  she 
took  pleasure  in  translations  from  the  poets,  showing  a  fine 
appreciation  both  of  sentiment  and  of  the  social  conditions  in 
France.  When  she  graduated  her  teachers  were  sure  that 
"her  beautiful  character,  her  excellent  training,  her  superior 
ability  and  her  fine  mental  acquisitions,  as  well  as  her  rever 
ence  for  learning,  foretold  a  valuable  and  useful  life." 

Her  university  record  was  one  of  accurate  and  discrim 
inating  scholarship,  notably  developed  in  very  different  fields 
under  two  sympathetic  teachers.  Of  her  work  in  English 
literature  Professor  Chauncey  W.  Wells  writes: 

"Elizabeth  Mills  was  a  member  of  my  very  first  class  in 
English  in  the  University  of  California,  1901 -'2,  she  being 
then,  as  I  recollect,  a  sophomore.  I  still  think  the  classes 
of  that  year  the  very  finest  of  all  the  inspiring  groups  whom 
it  has  been  my  privilege  to  teach  during  these  twenty  years, 
and  of  that  one  class  Miss  Mills  stands  out  in  my  memory, 
along  with  two  or  three  others,  as  the  ablest  and,  in  point  of 
responsiveness,  the  best  of  them  all.  I  tried  an  experiment 
with  them.  Believing  that  writing  and  literary  study  should 
go  hand-in-hand,  I  had  turned  to  descriptive  and  narrative 
prose  as  the  best  basis  for  awakening  interest  and  forming 
the  taste  for  literature,  and  for  training  the  powers  of  ex 
pression.  I  remember  that  we  made  a  vigorous  study  of 
Stevenson's  imaginative  works,  and  I  recall  the  eagerness 
with  which  the  class  read  them,  especially  Miss  Mills'  vivid 
understanding  that  the  author  had  a  definite  thing  to  say  and 
a  definite  reason  for  saying  it  as  he  did.  More  than  that, 
I  remember  how  quickly  she  caught  the  imaginative  stimulus 
and  showed  it  in  her  own  compositions.  One  day  a  professor 
from  the  University  of  Chicago  happening  to  visit  the  class 
room  when  the  students  were  writing  an  impromptu  exercise, 


I  turned  over  to  him  the  batch  of  completed  papers.  He 
pitched  upon  Miss  Mills'  paper  at  once,  saying  after  he  had 
read  it,  'You  don't  get  many  like  that,  I  assume.'  No,  the 
paper  was  exceptional  in  sheer  application  of  the  principles 
I  had  been  setting  forth,  as  all  her  papers  were.  Blessedly 
free  from  the  thing  called  temperament  she  could  put  her 
mind  upon  a  problem  of  expression  as  she  would  upon  a 
problem  of  knowledge,  employing  her  whole  intelligence. 

"After  her  graduation  she  used  sometimes  to  bring  me 
her  writings  to  read  and  criticize,  or  would  consult  me  about 
certain  of  her  projects.  I  was  always  aware  that  though  she 
came  quite  genuinely  for  advice  she  kept  her  own  guidance 
nor  surrendered  her  opinion  at  the  mere  suggestion  of  her 
critic.  One  thing  she  tried  hard  to  conceal  but  could  not — 
her  burning  ambition  to  express  herself,  to  be  of  some  account 
in  the  intellectual  world.  She  took  her  gift  of  writing  for 
what  it  was,  but  she  placed  her  reliance  on  her  mind  and  her 
will.  If  she  could  not  bring  thought  and  interpretation  into 
her  pages  she  considered  her  labor  wasted ;  she  was  unwilling 
to  rest  in  the  achievements  of  mere  talent  and  literary  grace. 
This  spirit,  I  take  it,  she  carried  into  all  her  activities,  social 
and  intellectual,  and  it  is  the  loss  of  that  spirit  that  makes 
the  loss  of  Elizabeth  Mills  Crothers  a  real  loss  to  this  com 
munity  and  particularly  to  that  circle  of  friends  who  were 
privileged  to  know  intimately  the  aspirations  and  ideals  of 
that  fine  young  mind  and  heart." 

Miss  Mills'  deepest  interest  proved  finally  to  be  scientific. 
Under  Dr.  John  C.  Merriam,  she  took  up  Vertebrate  Paleon 
tology,  with  special  reference  to  the  early  history  of  man.  As 
to  this  work,  Doctor  Merriam  writes:  "I  remember  your 
daughter  and  her  relation  to  the  work  of  our  department  in 
Berkeley  with  greatest  pleasure.  It  was  a  great  stimulus  to 
me  to  have  in  my  classes  one  who  expressed  such  interest  in 
his  study  and  who  showed  such  energy  in  prosecuting  it." 

On  a  visit  to  France  in  1903,  she  made  special  trips  to  the 
localities  which  have  yielded  records  of  primitive  man — thus 


ft 


becoming  an  appreciated  friend  and  correspondent  of  leading 
anthropologists  of  Paris,  notably  Emile  Cartailhac. 

At  one  time,  in  company  with  Doctor  Merriam  and  others, 
Miss  Mills  went  to  Carson  City,  Nevada,  to  examine  the 
"Giant  Footprints"  in  a  quarry  near  that  city,  relics  which 
had  then  attracted  considerable  attention.  Miss  Mills  sup 
ported  the  conclusion  of  Dr.  Joseph  LeConte  that  the  "Puzzle 
Tracks"  were  by  no  means  human  but  made  by  some  giant 
species  of  sloth,  Mylodon  or  Morotherium,  and  that  they 
date  from  the  later  Pliocene.  These  footprints  have  a  length 
of  eighteen  inches,  and  were  made  by  some  man  or  other 
animal,  having  a  stride  of  two  and  one-fourth  feet  and  a 
straddle  of  eighteen  inches.  The  foot  must  have  been  planti 
grade,  but  there  is  no  trace  of  toes.  Those  who  contended 
that  the  tracks  were  human  figured  a  giant  wearing  wooden 
sandals  of  peculiar  form. 

Our  young  paleontologist  compared  carefully  all  records 
and  opinions  in  regard  to  these  traces  and  to  aid  her  studies 
other  strata  were  opened  up  for  further  inspection. 

I  have  before  me  her  report  to  Doctor  Merriam,  in  itself 
a  fine  piece  of  scientific  work,  although  as  yet  unpublished. 
In  her  judgment  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
tracks  which  had  been  made  in  soft  clay  on  the  shallow  shores 
of  an  extinct  lake,  the  clays  becoming  afterwards  hardened 
through  the  presence  of  hot  alkaline  silicious  springs.  Foot 
prints  of  elephants  (mammoth),  horses,  deer,  wolves  and 
birds,  also  occur.  Ripple  marks  testify  to  the  shallowness  of 
the  water  and  rain  marks  to  its  seasonal  recession.  The  sheet 
of  water  was  probably  part  of  the  extinct  Shoshone  Lake  of 
Clarence  King,  separate  from  Lake  Lahontan  which  then 
filled  the  Humboldt  Valley. 

Of  this  memoir,  Doctor  Merriam  says:  "I  recall  with 
vividness  my  journey  to  Carson  City  when  with  your 
daughter  and  Mr.  Yerington's  family  we  examined  the  fossil 
footprints  at  the  Carson  Prison  Yard.  I  have  often  wished 
that  your  daughter's  paper  might  have  been  published  as  it 


was  at  that  time  the  most  advanced  study  in  this  field  that 
had  been  made." 

Under  the  inspiration  of  her  studies  of  primitive  man. 
Miss  Mills  composed  a  romance  dealing  with  his  loves  and 
ambitions  which  those  who  have  read  it  pronounce  unique  in 
its  type  of  imaginative  literature. 

The  poems  which  compose  this  volume  were  found  among 
the  papers  left  by  Mrs.  Crothers.  They  are  a  part  of  the 
natural  overflow  of  a  joyous  but  thoughtful  nature,  a  spirit 
in  which  the  author  composed  little  dramas,  and  songs  both 
for  children  and  grown  ups,  original  as  to  words  and  music. 
Six  of  these  delightful  songs  have  been  published.  These 
were  sung  by  Madame  Armand  Cailleau,  her  instructor  in 
vocal  music,  at  a  memorial  meeting  of  the  Century  Club  of 
San  Francisco,  on  which  occasion  one  of  her  single-act  plays, 
"Fanny's  Bright  Idea"  was  charmingly  presented. 

In  her  final  illness,  her  active  mind  was  "never  weary  of 
work"  and  she  rejoiced  that  as  one  after  another  of  her 
powers  were  taken  from  her,  she  was  still  able  to  think  and 
write.  Death  she  did  not  fear,  though  she  persistently  clung 
to  life  because  as  she  said  there  was  so  much  for  her  to  do. 

That  her  memory  may  be  kept  green  by  her  many  friends, 
this  little  book  has  been  compiled  and  set  forth  by  a  loving 
mother.  DAVID  STARR  JORDAN. 


CONTENTS 

The  Ascent 

In  the  Night 

On  the  Windy  Shore 

Things  That  Count 

Armistice  Day  in  London 

Mattinata 

In  the  Dark 

The  Holiday 

Summer  Day 

Noon-tide  Serenade 

The  Opera 

The  Radical 

A  Love  Song 

A  Summer  Love  Song 

Over  the  Hills 


CONTENTS 

Through  Woodland  Straying 

Wake,  Little  Flowers 

A  Little  Bird 

Oh,  Where's  the  Cottage  on  the  Hill 

Under  the  Bridge 

The  Old  Attic  Stair 

Sing  Chong 

Pigeon  English 

If  I  Could  Fly 

A  Good  Little  Boy 

Don't  Forget  Mother 

Sleep,  Dollie  Sleep 

Bye-Low,  Bye-Low 

When  I'm  Grown  Up 


THE  ASCENT 


THE  ASCENT 

Youth  is  like  a  pleasant  valley, 
Blossom-strewn  and  orchard  planted, 
Where  by  sound  of  bird  and  river, 
Scent  of  flower  and  sight  of  color, 
All  our  senses  are  enchanted — 
While  we  tarry,  while  we  dally. 

'Tis  like  looking  from  the  valley, 
Sunlight-bathed  and  soft  wind  blowing, 
To  the  rocky  steeps  that  glower 
Dark  beneath  the  storm  clouds'  shower. 
'Tis  a  yearning  to  be  going, 
Though  we  tarry,  though  we  dally. 

But  where  closer  thunders  rumble, 
In  the  mountains  steep  and  darkling, 
From  the  trail  we  may  not  loiter 
Though  our  weary  feet  must  falter. 
Glimpse  the  plain  in  sunlight  sparkling, 
As  we  clamber,  as  we  stumble! 

There  it  lies  far,  far  below  us, 

With  white  burgeonings  all  starry! 

Quick!    Let  us  return  together! 

Closed  the  path.    'Tis  lost  forever. 

In  that  vale  where  strangers  tarry 

None  would  greet  us,  none  would  know  us. 


U 


ON  THE  WINDY  SHORE 

The  white-walled  town 

And  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  shore 

Stand  lonely  but  firm  by  the  sea. 

A  mile  inland  and  high  on  the  crown 
Of  the  rolling,  grassy,  sand-strewn  down, 
The  smiling  streets  of  the  white- walled  town 
Lie  far  from  the  dark  and  threatening  frown 
And  the  pitiless  sweep  of  the  sea. 

When  the  ceaseless  toil  of  the  tidal  flow 
Has  shattered  and  crumpled  the  sandstone  foe, 
The  church  on  the  rock  will  stand  to  the  blow 
While  the  weakened  town  in  ruins  will  go 
To  the  maw  of  the  clamouring  sea. 

When  the  sun  goes  down  and  the  long,  long  night 
Of  infinite  time  has  followed  the  light, 
The  man  who  dared  to  suffer  and  fight 
And  die  for  the  creeds  he  holds  to  be  right 
Will  live  in  the  heart  of  the  sea. 


THINGS  THAT  COUNT 

Our  hearts  were  growing  faint,  Oh  Lord, 

With  quest  of  treasured  hoard. 
The  beggar  with  a  bitter  heart 

Was  driven  from  our  board. 
And  some  were  tried, 
And  others  died, 

Because  of  strife  for  things; 
And  there  was  talk  of  things  that  count, 

Of  power,  and  wealth  and  Kings. 

And  those  who  were  of  silver  tongue 

Yet  of  a  sodden  soul, 
Called  charity  a  fantasy 

And  riches  man's  best  goal. 
And  blood  was  spilled, 
And  men  were  killed, 

That  centered  power  might  thrive, 
And  there  was  talk  of  things  that  count, 

In  prison,  street  and  dive. 

The  granite  piles  with  gilt  were  spread, 

My  Lady  opened  purse 
For  costly  gems  and  Venice  lace, 

And  shuddered  at  the  hearse. 
And  some  were  jeered, 
And  others  cheered, 

The  cheered  were  knave  and  sleuth; 
And  there  was  talk  of  things  that  count, 

And  cynic's  word  was  truth. 


Oh,  headlong  enterprise  of  man, 

Oh,  stores  of  busy  ants, 
Dread  fiends  to  which  man  sells  his  soul, 

For  which  the  coward  recants! 
For  you  man  lied, 
And  vaunting  pride 

Was  all  you  gave  them  back. 
And  there  was  talk  of  things  that  count, 

Trusts,  Loans  and  Prison-rack. 

The  lofty  towers  that  vied  with  clouds 

Are  shattered  to  the  dust; 
My  Lady,  torn  and  starving,  gives 

The  starving  her  last  crust. 
The  golden  crown 
That  girt  the  town 

Is  trampled  to  the  sod. 
Yet,  there  is  talk  of  things  that  count, 

Of  Mercy,  Love  and  God. 


\ 


ARMISTICE  DAY  IN  LONDON 

(November  11,  1918) 
And  the  bells  pealed, 
And  all  at  once  a  silence  fell 
Upon  the  land,  half  human,  half  divine, 
As  if  some  magic  bird,  or  fairy  child 
With  magic  wand,  had  passed  from  line  to  line 
And  stopped  the  hurrying  feet  and  bowed  in  prayer  the 

head, 

For,  as  the  last  long  dying  echoes  of  the  bell 
Rolled  out  and  then  grew  slowly  dim, 
A  mighty  nation  to  its  Maker  came, 
And  for  a  while  in  silence  prayed  of  Him 
To  keep  forever  bright  within  their  hearts  the  name 
And  memory  of  Britain's  glorious  dead. 


MATTINATA 
Awake,  awake,  the  darkened  lake 

Now  bursts  aflame  from  Phoebus'  shaft! 
Awake,  awake,  the  woodland  brake 

Bends  'neath  the  weight  of  fairy  craft! 
Before  the  note  of  lark  or  thrush, 

I  crossed  the  somber  forest's  lawn 
And  felt  the  soft,  expectant  hush 

Which  just  precedes  the  crash  of  dawn. 

The  lark  has  throbbed  his  glad  "Good  morn," 

But,  ah,  for  me  it  is  not  day. 
The  poppies  ope,  still  I,  forlorn, 

Watch  for  the  gold  in  twilight  grey. 
So  wake,  awake,  and  to  my  night 

Bear  swift  the  radiance  of  thine  eyes. 
See,  love,  the  fields  are  clothed  with  light, 

Yet  I  await  till  thou  shalt  rise. 

Awake,  my  love,  the  sun  has  flung 
His  million  darts  of  spirit  gold 

To  goad  the  earth's  dull  heart,  now  stung 
To  new  endeavors  manifold. 

Whilst  thou  wert  sleeping  in  thy  bower, 
I  watched  until  the  sun  should  rise; 

. 

But,  though  the  dew  gleams  on  each  flower, 

I  wait  my  morning  from  thine  eyes. 
( 


\\ 


IN  THE  DARK 

It's  dark,  and  misty  forms  are  creeping, 

Creeping  round  my  bed. 

I  hear  the  clank  of  a  ghostly  tread, 

Right  overhead. 

I  hear  the  clank  of  ghostly  chains, 

Right  overhead. 

Why  do  things  change  so  in  the  dark? 
Why,  oh,  why  does  the  watch  dog  bark? 
What  are  the  things  that  creak  and  creep? 
Why,  oh,  why  can't  I  go  to  sleep 
Till  morning  comes  again? 

The  sun  will  put  them  all  to  flight, 
The  ghosts  will  flee  with  darkest  night, 
And  chairs  will  be  chairs — 
Not  crouching  bears — 
When  morning  comes  again. 

It's  morning,  the  clock  has  just  struck  six, 
The  floor  is  streaked  with  pink, 
And  the  ghosts  are  gone  in  a  wink, 
And  the  birds  in  throng  begin  their  song. 
We  are  just  at  the  daytime's  brink. 


Lovely  light,  I  missed  you  so. 

Why  did  you  go  away? 

Why  must  there  ever  be  the  dark? 

Why  can't  it  all  be  day? 

Why  do  I  have  to  sleep  at  all? 

Why  can't  I  always  play? 

Lovely  light,  the  night  was  drear, 
Lovely  light,  I'm  glad  you  are  here, 
For  it's  morning,  it  is  morning, 
And  the  day,  the  day  is  here. 


THE  HOLIDAY 

The  fields  are  aflame  with  the  flowers  of  May, 

The  year's  in  its  spring,  it's  the  dawn  of  the  day. 

Come  to  the  woods  where  the  pansies  grow, 

Come  to  the  fields  where  the  bluebells  blow, 

Come  with  me  wherever  I  go, 

Over  the  country  high  and  low! 

It's  gladdest  weather, 

Sing  together, 

Sing  a  roundelay, 

For  it's  spring  and  a  holiday. 

Yesterday's  clouds  are  now  all  gone,  dear, 

Leaving  their  diamonds  on  the  lawn,  dear, 

For  it's  springtime, 

Yes,  it's  springtime, 

For  it's  spring  and  a  holiday! 

Let's  go  down  where  the  tasseled  corn 

Is  growing  tall  in  the  early  morn. 

They  told  us  that  we  mustn't  go  there, 

But  half  of  the  fun  it  is  to  dare, 

So  when  I  come  home — well,  I  don't  care 

What  they  do  to  me, 

So  long  as  I've  been  free, 

In  the  sun  and  the  springtime  air, 

For  it 's  spring  and  a  holiday ! 


So  hasten  away  to  the  fields  and  the  woods, 

And  banish  straight  off  all  your  indolent  moods. 

There's  more  than  enough  to  be  done  to-day,  dear, 

The  world  is  eager  for  us  to  play,  dear, 

For  it's  springtime, 

Yes,  it's  springtime, 

For  it's  spring  and  a  holiday! 


SUMMER  DAY 

The  sun  's  in  the  sky, 

My  sweet  meadow  posies, 

Woodpecker  at  his  hewing, 

Elves  are  at  their  brewing 

Of  rainbow  dew 

To  shower  on  you, 

And  wake  you  up  for  me. 

The  field-lily's  cap 

Is  studded  with  dew, 

The  tall  morning  glories 

Are  mantled  in  blue, 

And  the  buttercup's  scrubbed 

By  a  good  bumblebee. 

The  sun  's  in  the  sky 
So  high, 

My  sweet  meadow  posies; 
On  guard  Master  Clover 
The  snowdrops  watching  over, 
And,  dropped  from  the  skies, 
Are  smiling  up  at  me, 
Baby  blue  eyes. 


NOON-TIDE  SERENADE 

Roses  red  hang  overhead 

Where  she  is  sleeping. 
Burdened  bees  fly  on  the  breeze, 

Their  harvest  reaping. 

Eglantine  and  fairy  vine 

Throw  lacy  shade  above  her. 

And  butterflies  no  longer  rise, 
But  o'er  her  hover. 

They  hover  where  my  dearest  lies  a-sleeping. 
Poppies  encircle  her  brow, 

A  curl  o'er  her  soft  cheek  is  straying, 
Her  finger-tips  touching  the  strings 

Of  the  tortoise  lute  she  was  playing. 

And  on  the  quivering  breath  of  the  garden, 
Dream-distilled  scent  of  the  roses 

Is  borne  with  the  song  of  the  fountain 
To  the  bower  where  my  lady  reposes. 

Oh,  dear  love,  oh,  fairest  love, 

A  watch  I'm  keeping, 
While  warm  noon-tide  the  country-side, 

In  light  is  steeping. 

And  silver  note  of  linnet's  throat 
Comes  softly  from  the  cover. 

He  woos  his  mate  while  here  I  wait, 
Your  anxious  lover. 

Your  lover,  who  still  guards  you 

While  you  are  sleeping. 


THE  OPERA 

The  Misses  Summer,  Sun  and  Shower 

Announce  an  operatic  season 
In  gardenland,  'twixt  hedge  and  bower, 

Commencing  May  the  first.     (The  reason 
We  cannot  now  announce  the  date 

Our  operatic  season  closes, 
Is  that  Miss  Autumn,  sometime  late 

In  August,  comes  in  "Gone  the  Roses" — 
A  melodrama  in  one  act.) 

So,  come  you  foxgloves,  come,  sweet  gilly, 
And  phlox  and  mignonette.     In  fact 

Come  violet  and  rose  and  lily! 
Quick!     Take  your  seats!     The  show  commences 

Sharp  at  sunrise.     The  hollyhocks 
Will  have  to  stand  up  near  the  fences. 

Now,  woodpecker!     Give  three  loud  knocks! 
Hush!  The  orchestra  is  tuning. 

The  winged  musicians  take  their  places. 
Bees  on  violins  are  crooning, 

And  bumblebees  draw  bows  on  basses, 
The  wasps  make  up  the  other  strings 

With  humming-birds  and  rusty  hornets, 
The  tympani  are  cricket-wings, 

And  blackbirds  play  the  cornets. 
And  now  the  curtain  is  uprolled, 

('Tis  made  of  spider  thread.)     The  chorus 


Of  linnets,  robins,  larks.     Behold! 

The  prima  donna  is  before  us — 
Dame  Meadow  Lark!     (Now,  Mr.  Phlox, 

Pray  do  sit  down — the  little  Zinnias 
Can't  see  at  all.     Look!     In  that  box 

Miss  Orchid  and  the  two  Gardenias!) 
And  now  the  ballet — butterflies 

And  dragon-flies  and  moths  are  dancing — 
They  leap  up  to  the  very  "flies," 

Their  grace  and  costumes  are  entrancing. 
The  book's  by  Puck — the  score's  by  Pan. 
Do  come  again.     Each  day  at  seven. 
(A  violet's  fainted!     Bring  a  fan 

Or  woodland  dew!)     The  rosy  Heaven 
Of  Eventide!     The  crickets  beat 

A  grand  finale.     The  opera's  done. 
The  flowers  nod  thanks — "A  splendid  treat 
Dear  Misses  Summer,  Shower  and  Sun." 


THE  RADICAL 
A  bat  once  in  a  lonely  tower 

Bemoaned  the  happier  fate  of  bees. 
'Would  I  might  plunder  honeyed  flower 

And  sail  the  sunlit  summer  breeze." 
He  sighed,  then  swiftly  sweeping  down 

To  where  the  prowlers  of  the  night, 
In  marshy  meadows  far  from  town, 

Held  congress  'neath  the  pale  moon's  light, 
'Dear  friends,"  he  cried,  "it's  hardly  fair 

That  we  should  be  condemned  to  rove 
In  darkling  night  and  chilling  air 

The  dreary  field,  the  silent  grove, 
While  day's  bright  winged  flocks  rejoice 

In  blushing  flower  and  sparkling  dew. 
To  deepest  discontent  give  voice — 

These  joys  should  be  denied  to  you! 
So  let  us  vote  the  garden  dry — 

Impose  a  fine  on  any  bee 
Caught  sipping  honey.  (Butterflies 

And  humming-bird  mark  this  decree!) 
Do  you  agree?"    "It  is  a  vote!" 

The  prowlers  answered.    So  next  day 
When  robins  woke  and  from  each  throat 

Sweet  cadence  poured  and  roundelay, 
When  poppies  spread  their  golden  sails, 

And  bees  rubbed  pollen  from  their  eyes, 


Were  the  grey  clouds  not  made 

For  the  red  of  your  mouth; 
The  ages  for  flight 

Of  the  butterfly  years; 
The  sweet  of  the  peach 

For  the  pale  lips  of  drouth ; 
The  sunlight  of  smiles 

For  the  shadow  of  tears? 

Love,  love  is  the  thread 

That  has  pierced  them  with  bliss! 
All  their  hues  are  but  notes 

In  one  world- wide  tune. 
Lips,  willows  and  waves, 

We  are  one  as  we  kiss, 
And  your  face  and  the  flowers 

Faint  away  in  the  moon. 


A  SUMMER  LOVE  SONG 
The  woodbine  never  loved  the  summer  show'r 
As  I  love  you; 

The  robin  never  loved  the  opening  flower. 
Or  grass  the  dew; 

The  ivy  never  loved  the  spreading  trees 
Or  sun  the  rue; 

Storm  wind  never  loved  the  billow, 
Breezes  never  loved  the  willow, 
Heather  never  loved  the  breeze 
As  I  love  you. 

So  what  if  showers  forsake  the  sweet  woodbine, 

Still  I  love  you; 

And  fickle  robins  leave  the  flower  to  pine, 

Soaring  high  in  blue. 

My  love  wanes  not  with  seasons 

But  abides  forever  true. 


OVER  THE  HILLS 
Over  the  hills  my  lass  went  straying, 
Garlands  to  gather  for  her  Maying. 
O  where  the  daisies,  O  where  the  rose, 
O  where  the  lily's  first  flower  blows. 

She  knew  a  spot  where  should  be  unfurling 
The  earliest  flags  of  petals  curling. 
So  swiftly  she  ran  and  breathless  she  knelt 
To  gather  the  blossoms  for  her  belt. 

But  the  breezes  were  around  her  playing, 
Clouds  the  springtime  skies  were  greying, 
In  the  valleys  that  she  knew 
Never  a  flag  or  a  buttercup  grew. 

So  I  found  her  sad  and  weeping, 

Down  among  the  lilies  sleeping. 

'Why  weep  for  a  daisy/'  I  cried,  "or  a  rose, 

When  you  are  the  sweetest  flower  that  blows." 


THROUGH  WOODLAND  STRAYING 

(A  Song) 

Ah,  if  to-day  through  woodland  straying, 
You  and  I  again  were  rnaying, 
Space,  and  all  our  love  has  fettered, 
Vanished  as  oft  in  my  fancy's  playing. 

Then,  if  one  day  we  were  to  borrow 
From  Life's  full  count  of  longing  and  sorrow, 
To  meet  at  last,  in  peace,  hands  clasping, 
Life  would  be  death  to  us,  dear,  to-morrow — 
To-morrow. 


WAKE,  LITTLE  FLOWERS 

Wake,    little    flowers, 

Open    your    eyes, 

The  beautiful  dawn  draws  near. 

Spread  your  petals  to  rosy  skies; 

Dawn  is  fleeting, 

Nod  your  greeting, 

Awake,  for  the  dawn  is  here. 

Wake,  awake,  awake. 

Wake,  little  flowers, 

Joy  to  impart, 

Wake,  for  the  day's  begun. 

Pansies  sweet  for  the  sad  of  heart, 

Violets  blue  all  steeped  in  dew, 

Lilies  and  roses, 

Dear  little  posies, 

Awake  to  greet  the  sun; 

Wake,  awake,  awake. 


vf 

\\ 


A  LITTLE  BIRD 

A  little  bird  in  yonder  tree 
Is  singing  with  one  eye  on  me. 

He  looks  so  cute  that  I  am  typing 
An  ode  to  his  melifluous  piping. 

His  name?     I  cannot  jot  it  down, 
I  left  my  bird-books  all  in  town. 

So  what  the  name  of  bird  or  tree 
Can  never  proven  be  by  me. 

But  I  can  vouch  without  digression 
They  both  create  a  good  impression. 

Of  nightingales  and  larks  and  thrushes 
The  bona-fide  poet  gushes. 

I  am  no  poet,  Heaven  knows, 
So  I  suspect  he's  none  of  those. 

His  wings  are  black,  his  breast  is  yellow, 
Perhaps  you  recognize  the  fellow. 

It  may  not  be  the  proper  thing, 
In  poems,  thus  his  praise  to  sing. 

This  is  no  poem  (as  you  say) 
So  I  can  praise  him  anyway. 

I  only  know  the  song  he  sings 

Can  make  me  dream  the  nicest  things. 


OH,  WHERE'S  THE  COTTAGE  ON  THE  HILL 

Oh,  where's  the  cottage  on  the  hill, 
The  path  that  ran  through  clover, 

The  mossy  stones  across  the  rill, 
The  mill-pond  running  over? 

The  moon  that  shone  on  almond  trees. 

And  snowy  petals  falling, 
Your  voice  that  carried  down  the  breeze 

A  last  "good  night"  still  calling? 

Alas,  the  cottage  on  the  hill, 

The  path  that  ran  through  clover 

Are  gone.    And  journey  where  I  will 
There's  none  the  whole  world  over. 

My  heart  beneath  the  petals  lies, 
Where  almond  bloom  is  falling; 

I  only  have  to  close  my  eyes 

To  hear  your  voice  still  calling. 


UNDER  THE  BRIDGE 

CHILD'S  SONG 

Oh,  Heigh-O,  come  under,  come  under, 

Under  the  bridge  am  I ! 

With  the  sands  of  the  bank, 

A  fortress  dank 

I've  builded  with  walls  so  high. 

Heigh-O,  come  under,  come  under, 

The  world  in  my  fort  I  defy — 

The  pussy-willows  make  forest  naves, 

The  rushing  river's  the  ocean  waves, 

And  there's  life  and  strife  and  a  battle  cry. 

When  under  the  bridge  am  I ! 

But  if  you  don't  like  war  and  fights, 
My  nooket  offers  rare  delights, 
The  fortress  now  no  more  defies 
It's  only  dough  for  making  pies, 
And  you  can  wade  here  in  the  shade, 
And  catch  the  pretty  dragon-flies! 

Heigh-O,  come  under,  come  under, 

A  warrior  Greek  am  I. 

On  Attic  strand 

Full-armored  I  stand 

And  sing  to  the  Gods  on  high. 

Heigh-O,  the  thunder,  the  thunder, 

Of  the  wagons  as  they  pass  by, 

Is  the  thunder  of  Jove  and  the  dust  you  see 

Is  the  God  in  love  with  Danae, 

And  life  is  rife  and  joy  runs  high, 

When  under  the  bridge  am  I ! 


THE  OLD  ATTIC  STAIR 

The  spiders  weave  their  webs  about  the  attic, 

The  dust  lies  thick  upon  the  ancient  floor. 

Alone  I  sit  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairway, 

'Mid  grim  old  things  of  a  time  that  is  no  more. 

Scabbards  rusty,  garments  musty, 

Speak  of  a  race  gone  long  before. 

On  the  old  attic  stair, 

On  the  old  attic  stair! 

Ah,  Time  forgets  to  hasten 

When  I'm  sitting,  dreaming  there, 

On  the  old  attic  stair! 

There's  a  doll  of  wax  with  a  funny  sawdust  body, 

And  the  pin-pricks  tell  of  the  dresses  that  she  wore, 

There's  a  broken  drum  and  a  real  old  army  sabre, 

And  an  old  blue  coat  behind  the  closet  door. 

Kin  departed,  kin  strong-hearted! 

Men  of  my  race  who  are  no  more! 

On  the  old  attic  stair, 

On  the  old  attic  stair! 

Ah,  Time  forgets  to  hasten 

When  I'm  sitting,  dreaming,  there. 

On  the  old  attic  stair! 


rag 


SING  CHONG 

Oh,  you  should  know  our  cook,  Sing  Chong! 
He  works  an'  sings  the  whole  day  long — 

He  doesn't  find  me  in  the  way; 
He  never  scolds,  but  lets  me  play 

With  dough-ends  from  the  biscuit  rings, 
An*  laughs,  an'  laughs,  an'  sings  an'  sings! 

There's  really  no  one  like  Sing  Chong, 
Though  Dad  says  his  religion's  wrong; 

What  do  I  care,  so  long  as  he 
Leaves  batter  in  the  pan  for  me? 

Dad  says  his  tunes  are  on  one  string. 
But  I  really  like  to  hear  Chong  sing. 

Somehow,  life  isn't  hard  for  Chong — 
He's  happy  an*  well  an'  big  an'  strong; 

He's  not  tempted  by  sugar  an'  spice, 
But  just  sits  down  to  a  bowl  of  rice. 

He  doesn't  have  to  wear  collars  an'  things, 
His  clothes  are  loose,  so  no  wonder  he  sings. 

Sometimes  a  boy  comes  to  see  our  Chong ; 
He's  about  my  size,  an'  his  name  is  Wong; 


His  folks  are  dead,  so  Chong  gives  him  food — 
Now  don't  you  think  that  he  is  good? 

When  I  know  that,  it  sorter  stings, 
When  folks  make  fun  of  the  way  he  sings. 

So  what  do  I  care  if  they  say  that  Chong's 
A  "peril" — a  heathen — an*  belongs  to  tongs? 

When  it's  rainin'  outside  an'  nobody's  in, 
He  lets  me  play  with  the  flour  in  the  bin. 

Some  cooks  get  cross  if  a  little  boy  swings 

On  the  pantry  door,  but  Chong — he  just  sings! 


PIGEON  ENGLISH 

Where  the  beeches  shade  the  pasture  gate, 

When  nights  grow  short  and  days  grow  long, 

The  wood-dove  woos  his  modest  mate, 

And  this  is  all  his  wooing  song: 
"Curr-a-hoo,  curr-a-hoo! 
You  love  me  and  I  love  you." 

But  wedded  love  is  full  of  care. 

Through  all  the  sunny  afternoon 
They  vainly  strive,  that  shiftless  pair, 

To  build  a  nest,  while  thus  they  croon: 

Coo-pe-coo !    Coo-pe-coo ! 

Two  sticks  across  and  a  bit  of  moss, 

And  that  will  have  to  do,  to  do!" 

When  last  I  wandered  down  the  lane, 

The  little  mother,  all  intent 
To  feed  her  greedy  nestlings  twain, 

Was  pouring  forth  this  sad  lament: 
"Coo-a-roo!    What  shall  I  do? 

I  cannot  feed  my  hungry  two, 

Though  the  little  red  wren 

Can  bring  up  ten 

And  rear  them  all  like  gentlemen!" 


IF  I  COULD  FLY 

If  I  could,  like  the  swallows,  fly, 
Over  the  trees, 
Over  the  seas, 
Down  the  breeze, 
Hi,  tra  la,  la,  la,  tra  la,  la,  la! 
I'd  fly! 

On  snowy  wings  I'd  sweep  the  sky, 
And  maybe,  too, 
Right  over  you, 
In  the  great,  big  blue, 
Hi,  tra  la,  la,  la,  tra  la,  la,  la! 
I'll  fly! 

But  when  I  fly  on  the  tempest's  gale 

I  would  no  shipwrecks  see, 

And  when  I  fly  o'er  the  city's  roofs, 

I  hope  there  won't  be 

People  quarreling  and  people  starved, 

Mothers  grave  and  sad, 

But  I  suppose  that'll  never  be 

Long  as  us  girls  are  bad. 

So  if  I  e'er  like  the  swallows  fly; 
Guess  it  will  be  by-and-by. 


A  GOOD  LITTLE  BOY 

Good  little  boys  wear  stockings  and  shoes — 
Even  when  they  play  in  the  sands — 

And  good  little  boys  come  in  at  five, 
To  wash  their  faces  and  hands. 

A  good  little  boy  never  teases  the  cat 
Or  finds  out  what's  in  his  toy, 

And  never  puts  salt  in  Grandmamma's  tea, 
So  I  guess  I'm  a  bad  little  boy. 


j> 


f 


DON'T  FORGET  MOTHER 

(Lullaby) 

Sleep,  sleep,  while  the  moonbeams 
Show  you  the  way  to  the  land  of  dreams. 
Sleep,  oh  sleep,  for  the  star  fairy's  come 
To  carry  you  off  to  her  woodland  home, 
'Way  up  in  the  sky  so  high  and  so  far, 
You  shall  go  sailing  up  on  a  star. 
Sleep,  oh  sleep,  dearest,  sleep; 
But  oh,  my  dearest,  wherever  you  roam 
Don't  forget  Mother,  who's  waiting  at  home. 

Sleep,  sleep,  greatest  of  joys ; 

You  will  find  alive  there  your  dearest  of  toys, 

And  mother-goose  children,  oh,  look,  dearest,  look! 

Will  come  dancing  down  from  the  leaves  of  the  book 

To  help  you  put  all  the  stars  to  sleep, 

And  wake  up  the  flowers  at  dawn's  first  peep. 

Sleep,  oh  sleep,  dearest,  sleep; 

But  oh,  my  dearest,  wherever  you  roam 

Don't  forget  Mother,  who's  waiting  at  home. 


A,  B,  C  AND  X,  Y,  Z 

Oh,A,B,CtoX,Y,Z; 

Upon  my  word 

It  is  absurd 

That  you  should  so  perplex  us, 

With  spelling  lessons  vex  us. 

Oh,  D,  F,  G  and  R,  S,  T, 
It  is  my  firm  belief 
The  words  you  make, 
The  words  we  break, 
Cause  much  of  human  grief. 

Oh,  would  that  all  our  tasks  could  be 
Easy  as  A,  B,  C,  A,  B,  C, 
But  sad  to  say  most  of  them  are 
Hard  as  X,  Y,  Z. 


SLEEP,  DOLLIE  DEAR 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  dollie  dear, 
See,  mother's  watching  near. 
If  in  the  night 
You  take  a  fright, 
Just  call  to  me,  love, 
Mother's  always  here. 

Dollie,  dollie,  the  winds  are  storming, 
So  sleep,  love,  and  deep,  love, 
Till  the  break  of  morning. 
Dollie,  dollie,  the  fire  is  dying, 
Close  your  waxen  peepers,  love, 
And  don't  you  fear! 

The  nursery  walls  are  aglow, 

As  the  fire  on  the  hearth  burns  low, 

But  when  it  is  out 

And  darkness  about, 

I'll  be  here 

Just  the  same,  dollie  dear! 

Dollie,  dollie,  the  winds  are  storming, 
So  sleep,  love,  and  deep,  love, 
Till  the  break  of  morning. 
Dollie,  dollie,  the  fire  is  dying, 
Close  your  waxen  peepers,  love, 
And  don't  you  fear! 


BYE-LOW,  BYE-LOW 

(Lullaby) 

Bye-low,  bye-low,  the  boat  is  on  the  tide, 

Bye-low,  bye-low,  sails  are  spreading  wide, 

Baby  mine  all  tucked  in  tight 

Is  drifting  out  to  sea. 

Dark  the  sky  and  dark  the  waves, 

Dark  the  silent  lea. 

Drifting  out  on  mirrored  stars 

To  lands  beyond  our  ken, 

Drifting  till  the  star  sea  fades 

To  the  blue  again. 

Bye-low,  bye-low,  the  boat  is  bearing  down, 

Bye-low,  bye-low,  on  the  shores  of  dreaming  town, 

The  mead  is  spread  with  poppy-cups 

And  dew-drops  flashing  fire; 

Butterflies  of  blue  and  gold 

On  wings  that  never  tire, 

Poise,  then  rise  to  where  in  light 

The  meadow  lark  adores 

Straying  babe  in  sleepy  land 

On  fragrant  sunlit  shores. 


Bye-low,  bye-low,  in  the  land  of  rainbow  dreams, 

Bye-low,  bye-low,  till  rosy  morning  gleams; 

Then,  baby  mine,  come  o'er  the  sea 

To  harbor  safe  at  home, 

Sailing  while  the  mirrored  stars 

Fade  in  the  azure  dome. 

Bye-low,  bye-low,  bye-low,  bye. 


Oat 


WHEN  I'M  GROWN  UP 

When  I'm  grown  up,  my  dollie, 

I'll  love  you,  you  just  see. 
Big  folks  say 
They  used  to  play 

With  dollies  just  like  me; 
But  I  could  never  leave  you, 

And  Puss,  and  Spot,  and  Gay — 
What  would  be  left  for  me 

If  I  put  you  away? 

I  don't  believe  my  elders 

Loved  dollies  as  I  do; 

But  maybe  I, 

Bye-and-bye, 

Will  be  an  elder,  too; 
But  if  grown  up  or  not,  dear, 

I  know  I'll  never  change — 
That,  sweetheart,  we  could  part, 

Seems  to  me  quite  strange! 

Ah,  where  is  the  border  to  childhood  land 
And  how  shall  I  know  when  it's  passed  ? 

And  will  they  let  me  come  back  again — 
Back  to  you  dear  at  last? 


YC  67736 


UNIVERS.TY  OF 


UBRARy 


